


Dangerous Obsession

by vix_spes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Eating Disorders, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 06:15:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vix_spes/pseuds/vix_spes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After one too many jibes about his weight from Sherlock, Mycroft decides to take drastic action...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dangerous Obsession

**Author's Note:**

> Essentially, I had a bit of a rough time and needed a fandom character to abuse and sadly Mycroft drew the short straw. Written for the following prompt at sherlockbbc_fic : Mycroft, concerned about his weight, thinks ‘If my little brother can go without food for days on end, then surely I can do it too! Feeling woozy...’ And then Lestrade feeds him and tells him to never try to imitate his brother again in any aspect of life, please

* * *

Any other time Mycroft would have been able to ignore Sherlock’s childish insults about his weight; he had been doing it for over two decades after all. The problem was that Sherlock had caught him at a time where he was already feeling incredibly self-conscious about his weight anyway so it was that much harder to shake off the comments. It was ridiculous really, the way that Sherlock’s comments managed to pierce the metaphorical armour that he had spent years building up around himself but no matter how many times he heard them, the barbs still managed to get to him and fester in some small corner of his psyche. Normally he had absolutely no problem in ignoring that small corner of his mind as he was generally more concerned with bigger things such as clearing up whatever mess the current Prime Minister had made or ensuring that the members of the Security Council didn’t grossly offend each other and start a nuclear war ... he simply didn’t have the time or the energy to spend on the fact that his younger brother kept insulting him about his weight.

The thing was, in the past there had been justification for Sherlock’s remarks. Mycroft would be the first person to admit that he had been rather large during his later years at boarding school and then at university. Isolation from his peers due to his intelligence and his dislike of social situations despite forcing himself to attend the useful ones had essentially led to a life of solitude that he hadn’t really wanted and he had compensated by trying to find comfort elsewhere. During this period, Sherlock’s teasing ramped up another level and the animosity between the siblings reached previously unseen levels. Despite excelling at both school and then at university in everything but making friends (he made contacts instead), Mycroft became even more miserable about his weight and, by the time Mummy had decided to stage an intervention, he had already decided to do something of his own accord. Slowly but surely he started exerting his formidable will of iron over his eating and his diet until he was, as he was now, practically a shadow of his former self. He still wasn’t happy with the person that he saw in the mirror though. The Mycroft Holmes that people met was simply a mask; he wasn’t the real Mycroft Holmes. The real Mycroft Holmes still looked in a mirror and despised himself; Sherlock’s comments really weren’t necessary. He just couldn’t bear to let Sherlock know how much power he wielded with those small comments though. He just determined to do something about it.

Mycroft had never copied Sherlock in anything before; he was firmly of the opinion that the role of copycat was one to be played by the younger sibling (and that had been absolutely adorable when Sherlock was younger and thought Mycroft was the best thing in the world toddling around after him twenty-four seven, imitating everything he did). In this though, he was adamant that if Sherlock could do it then so could he. By it, he meant going without food for long periods of time and still being able to function on a higher plane than everybody else. The reason that he was considering it?

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

Mycroft had seen the man on numerous CCTV feeds when Sherlock had started attending crime scenes and pulled his personal files (as he always did with people who associated with Sherlock on a regular basis) with interest. He hadn’t expected to become rather smitten with the attractive copper. He was more than happy to admire from a distance though and had resigned himself to the fact that they would never meet in person. Thus, he had been incredibly surprised when, visiting a crime scene to summon Sherlock for a meeting with Mummy, he had been approached by the man himself. Even now he wasn’t convinced that he hadn’t gaped like an incredibly ugly fish when the DI had instigated conversation and had been even more incredulous when the other man had actually asked him out on a date. His normal vocabulary had deserted him and, for all his skill with words, he had stumbled and stuttered through an acceptance like a moonstruck teenager. That, right there, was his reasoning for even contemplating this madness. He was three dates into a, dare he say it, potential relationship with the dishy Detective and he was highly conscious of the fact that Gregory Lestrade was ridiculously attractive and drew admiring looks wherever he went from men and women alike, the very same people who were no doubt wondering why Gregory was with him.

If he wanted this relationship with Gregory to continue, to become more than what it was, then he had to do this and had to succeed at this. How difficult could it be? After all, he was a Holmes and they never failed at anything.

~*~

The first few days of his self-imposed fasting were easier than he thought. His days were filled with meeting after meeting so it was incredibly easy for him to simply stay in his office and decline his secretary’s offers to bring him food. He did struggle of course; there was quite a large difference between the rigid diet that he forced himself to stick to and not eating at all. The only things that he allowed to pass his lips were water or black tea. The next few days weren’t quite as simple; he had several state dinners that he was required to attend, no excuses. It was going to be difficult for him to pull it off but he wouldn’t be in the position that he was in if he wasn’t capable of it. He succeeded but it took more willpower than he had envisaged. He couldn’t get away with not eating completely – it simply wasn’t feasible – but a lot could be achieved via sleight of hand. Over the years he had watched many women, his own mother included, following numerous diets, relying on medication, even coping with a variety of eating disorders and observed the methods and tricks that they used. Using these tricks, he managed to escape the scrutiny of his fellow diners and eat the bare minimum to avoid confrontation. It was a struggle; after three days of not eating merely drinking water and black tea, he was almost overcome with a desire to gorge himself on the delicious food that was being served. He reined in his desires though; he had made this decision and he was determined to follow it through. He had goals and he was adamant that he was going to reach them, if not exceed them.

By the end of nearly two and a half weeks he was struggling but was determined to carry on. He had suppressed the hunger pangs by the end of the first week and they didn’t even trouble him now. The problem was that while the not-eating itself wasn’t really bothering him anymore, the side-effects of not eating were. A lot. They had been unobtrusive at first; mainly headaches that appeared as his blood sugar levels that dipped below what was deemed to be appropriate. Things progressed from there into uncontrollable tremors in his hands that just wouldn’t go away and dizzy spells that completely obliterated his centre of balance. He was immensely relieved that he didn’t have any formal dinners to attend this week; it had been hard enough last week to hide his lack of eating (although Mycroft had succeeded of course) but to hide his lack of eating in addition to the hand tremors and the dizzy spells? Impossible. Even for Mycroft. Things had been made easier by the fact that Gregory had been involved in a case all week and had been thoroughly distracted. However, thanks to the involvement of Sherlock and John, the case had been solved late last night. Mycroft had received a phone call from Gregory this morning announcing that he would be taking Mycroft out for dinner that night and no excuses would be acceptable. Mycroft should be looking forward to it but he found himself dreading it. He had lost more than a few pounds but it wasn’t enough and he was nowhere near satisfied. He was doing this for Gregory’s benefit so that the other man wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen with Mycroft but indirectly it was for his own benefit as he would get to keep Gregory. His secretary buzzed through on the intercom, announcing that his car had arrived to take him to the restaurant, and Mycroft stood, gripping the desk tightly as his body swayed. He just had to make it through tonight.

They had had a delicious dinner at a cosy little French bistro hidden at the back of The Strand. Well, Gregory had had a delicious meal; Mycroft had mostly just pushed his food around his plate, cutting it into smaller and smaller pieces. He had made a few concessions; they were in a restaurant and he didn’t want Gregory to start a very public confrontation so he had eaten a few mouthfuls, the rich flavours making him feel sick to his stomach and he had relented, allowing Gregory to feed him several mouthfuls of dessert, struggling to keep the grimace from his face at the thought of all the fat and calories they contained. With the bill taken care of (Gregory had been adamant that this was his treat), they had made their way to the front to await the car. The driver would take several minutes to negotiate the network of one-way streets and to Mycroft’s delight he realised, as Gregory pushed him backwards towards the wall of the restaurant, that Gregory had plans for those minutes.

Mycroft gasped as his back hit the wall and he was pressed back into it by the solid bulk of Gregory Lestrade. His hands fumbled and fluttered slightly as he didn’t really know what to do with them. Eventually he let them settle on Gregory’s shoulders, unable to stop the breathy moan that escaped his lips at the sensation of being pressed against the other man along the whole length of their bodies. The movement of the butterflies that had taken up residence in his stomach increased incrementally until it felt as though there was an entire swarm existing in there. His breath caught in his throat as Gregory leant in closer and he was frozen in place. Their first kiss was the barest brush of lips but Mycroft’s eyelids insisted on fluttering closed. There was a huff of laughter and then his jaw was being cupped by a large, calloused hand. He leant into the warmth and then another kiss was brushed against his lips. Again, it was the barest brush of lips but when Mycroft practically whimpered when their lips parted, Greg took that as unequivocal agreement that this was what Mycroft wanted. It was almost as though a switch had been flicked and things moved up a gear. Mycroft’s lips were claimed in a kiss the likes of which he had never experienced before. He had always scoffed at those people who waxed lyrical about kissing, claiming that they were both over-romanticising and over-sentimentalising the act. Whatever he had said in the past, he took it all back; this was a truly magical, spine-tingling, toe-curling kiss. He gasped as Gregory’s tongue swiped at his lower lip and then slid into his mouth, entwining with his own and exploring Mycroft’s mouth fully.  

As Gregory slowly pulled away, Mycroft’s head was swimming with sensation and he realised it wasn’t just the effect that Gregory’s kisses were having on him, regardless of how potent they were. His world was narrowing rapidly and he could hear a roaring in his ears. His hands clutched at Gregory’s suit jacket in an attempt to control the shaking, creasing and wrinkling it horrifically, and he knew that the weakness he felt in his knees couldn’t solely be contributed to the incredibly talented tongue of the DI. The last thing he remembered before he blacked out completely was the feel of the cold pavement below him and the worried features of Gregory leaning over him, begging for him to stay awake, telling him that he had phoned for an ambulance.

~*~

When Mycroft came to, it was to an unfamiliar ceiling and a familiar voice tinged with exasperation on the phone. Closing his eyes quickly in order to avoid detection, he determined from the scents in the air and the brief glance that he had had of the room that he was in hospital and the familiar voice belonged to DI Gregory Lestrade. A few minutes of listening to the one-sided conversation enabled him to determine that Gregory was talking to John Watson. He winced as he heard the words “I can’t believe he’d be so stupid ... it’s all Sherlock’s bloody fault.” There was a bit more conversation, nothing that he could work out from this side of the conversation and then Gregory said his farewells and hung up the phone. There was the slight sound of movement and then the creak of a chair before Gregory spoke.

“I know you’re awake you know. You can’t fool me, Mycroft.”

He reluctantly opened his eyes, turning his head slightly to the side and coming upon the surprising sight of a worried looking Gregory sat in a chair next to the bed that had obviously been dragged over from the corner of the room.

“It wasn’t exactly how I envisaged our first kiss to end ... you collapsing in my arms. I’ve never been so scared in my whole life; I couldn’t wake you up. Anthea arranged for you to be brought here and John’s been to check up on you; I trust him more than the doctors here, however expensive this private hospital is. He had to go home and check up on Sherlock – some experiment or another – but he’ll be back in a bit. You’ve been out for several hours.”

Now that was surprising, as was the fact that Gregory had actually stayed with him while he had been unconscious; that was completely unexpected. All of a sudden Mycroft was aware of the annoying scratch in the back of his hand and looked down to realise that there was an IV inserted into the back of his left hand. He frowned and reached down to remove it only to have his hand slapped away as though he were a naughty child.

“Don’t touch that, it needs to stay there until it’s finished. There was nothing in your system whatsoever; John said your body was starved of the nutrients it needs and don’t think I didn’t notice you pushing your food around your plate at dinner. They didn’t make me a Detective Inspective just because I can hold my own at press conferences, I’m actually a decent copper. What the hell do you think you’ve been playing at? How long has this been going on?”

Greg broke off his mini lecture and smiled gratefully at the nurse who brought in a tray of food and then left without a word. “We can discuss this later. You need to eat something.”

“Well I’m certainly not going to eat that. It looks horrendous.”

“Mycroft, you’re in a private hospital, the food isn’t going to be horrendous. I’ve paid for less appetising food in restaurants. Food in an NHS hospital would be ten times worse.”

“I’m still not going to eat it and you can’t force me to eat any of it. It’s going to be full of fat and calories.”

“Don’t be ridiculous; it’s what John and the doctors here decided would be the best thing for you at the moment. Look, how about we make a deal?” Greg was the recipient of Mycroft’s infamous ‘What on earth makes you think you could offer me a deal that I would be interested in?’ He wasn’t in the least bit intimidated and simply grinned. There was no way that Mycroft was going to refuse this deal.

“What’s the deal?”

Greg gave a slightly wicked smile, although it was tempered by the sight of Mycroft lying in the hospital bed. “Every mouthful of food that you eat, you’ll get a reward. How does that sound?”

“That would depend on what my reward is.” Even laid up in a hospital bed, Mycroft was ever the consummate diplomat.

“A kiss. For every mouthful of food you eat, you get a kiss. Are you going to take me up on my offer?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes but agreed. He reluctantly accepted the first mouthful of food and swallowed it before raising his head, mutely asking for his kiss. He received it but not where he expected it. He had been expecting a kiss on the lips but instead a kiss was pressed to his forehead, lingering slightly. Four more mouthfuls of food followed as did four kisses, kisses pressed to Mycroft’s temples, eyelids and the tip of his nose.

After five mouthfuls, the cutlery and the food were abandoned as they focused on each other, on the kiss that had been abandoned when Mycroft collapsed. As they had outside the restaurant, large and warm hands cupped his face, the calloused fingertips creating a wealth of sensation as they smoothed over his face. Once again, he raised his head slightly and this time he received the kiss that he had been angling for. As before, the first touch was the barest brush of lips but Mycroft quickly wound the hand that didn’t have an IV drip in it around Gregory’s neck so that he couldn’t move any further back. To his relief, Gregory got the hint. He leant in again, kissing Mycroft with increasing fervour although at all times he was conscious of the fact that Mycroft was lying in a hospital bed having collapsed mere hours ago. A hand at the small of Mycroft’s back pressed him closer to Gregory, slipping inside the back of the hospital gown before smoothing slowly up and down Mycroft’s spine, without Mycroft leaving the bed at all.  As the kiss became steadily more passionate they were oblivious to the sound of the door opening.

“You two do realise that you’re in hospital don’t you?” The amused voice of John Watson came from the door.

They both looked over at him, Greg with no look of remorse whatsoever on his face while Mycroft looked as though he’d rather like the ground to open up and swallow him whole. As if this whole situation couldn’t be any more embarrassing (really, fainting in public and being taken to hospital), he had just been caught kissing his ... boyfriend? No that sounded far too juvenile. Partner? That sounded more acceptable. Fine, he had just been caught kissing his partner by his little brother’s flatmate. Of course, this was if Gregory hadn’t been completely scared off. Most people would be, but then would Gregory have stayed if he was planning on leaving Mycroft? He wasn’t really sure which was rather unnerving.

“Mycroft, Greg.” John walked into the room, taking Mycroft’s chart out of the holder at the foot of the bed and flicked through it. “Anthea apparently persuaded the doctors here to hand over your care to me at the request of both Greg and herself. Let me guess ... you haven’t eaten for a couple of weeks; I shouldn’t have to tell you how stupid that is. When did this start?”

“Nearly three weeks ago.” Mycroft didn’t want to answer but it would appear that he was going up against Dr. John H. Watson, surgeon and former Captain in the RAMC with a backbone of steel, not John Watson Sherlock’s mild-mannered friend who wore woolly jumpers. He actually felt like a chastened child lying in the hospital bed. His heart sank as he saw enlightenment dawn in John’s eyes; Sherlock could make his deductions but one of the reasons that John had made such a wonderful doctor, and still did, had been his empathy and his ability to read people, the way that he had just read Mycroft.

“That was the last time that you were at the flat. Sherlock was in the middle of a case so of course he wasn’t eating. Is that what prompted this?”

Mycroft didn’t respond, slightly bewildered at how quickly John had figured it out and also rather embarrassed as he knew just how stupid his actions had been. He was a man in his early forties with a ridiculously large intellect but he had thought it was a good idea to starve himself for near on three weeks just so that his partner would find him more attractive. He looked up and saw sympathy in John’s eyes.

“Look, you need to let that IV finish and I can see that Greg’s persuaded you to eat something,” John’s lips twitched as he said this, “so as long as you promise you’re not going to do anything this bloody stupid again and as long as Greg goes home with you for tonight at least then I’ll recommend that you’re discharged later this afternoon. I don’t think that I need to tell you how stupid this was but I’m sure Greg can take care of the lectures for me.” He placed the chart back in its holder and wandered out of the room, leaving Mycroft to the tender mercies of Greg.

Greg paced up and down, frustration clear in his every move, something that Mycroft recognised from the CCTV feeds. “The next time that you think about copying Sherlock again, I want you to think very carefully and then do the exact opposite. I thought you were highly intelligent but I’ve never seen anything so stupid in my life. What possessed you to think it was a good idea?”

“I, um ...” Mycroft was, for one of the few times in his life, completely and utterly speechless.

“That is precisely my point. You don’t even have a good reason for doing it. Mycroft, you are a stupid, stupid man.” Greg shook his head and stopped pacing the room, slumping back into the chair at Mycroft’s bedside, reaching out and taking Mycroft’s hand in his own. “Look, I’m not convinced why you thought it was a good idea but from what John said and given that you’ve been starving yourself, I’m assuming it’s something to do with Sherlock’s comments about your weight which is completely ridiculous. I asked you out because I found you attractive as you were, not however many pounds lighter. I can’t believe that you would do something so stupid and I never want you to do anything like this ever again. Do you understand me?”

“Yes Gregory.” Mycroft didn’t think he’d sounded so submissive to his own ears.

“Good. Now, go back to sleep and by the time you wake up we can take that bloody drip out of your hand and get you home.”

Mycroft was still tired ... yet another infuriating side-effect of not eating, so he acquiesced without any further complaint. The last thing that he was aware of as he slipped into sleep was Gregory taking hold of the hand that contained the drip and pressing a kiss just above the IV port.


End file.
